


Unrequited

by LetsPlayRayvin



Category: Fall Out Boy
Genre: First Kiss, Fluff, I Can't Believe I Wrote This, M/M, Not Actually Unrequited Love, Peterick, Possessive!Pete is a great Pete, Possessiveness, Possibly Unrequited Love, Spooning, i love this
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-01
Updated: 2015-09-01
Packaged: 2018-04-18 11:33:09
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,746
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4704578
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LetsPlayRayvin/pseuds/LetsPlayRayvin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"I hate that I love that stupid, bright smile so much. I hate that I love him so much. </p><p>I don't really hate that last part, though."</p><p>(In which Patrick thinks that he has an unrequited crush on Pete, but Pete's just as madly head over heels for him.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Unrequited

**Author's Note:**

> This started off as a drabble. This ended as a full fledged oneshot. Not too shabby. Enjoy. (Also, thank you, G, for the two phrases I got dared to add in here. Emo boy and he is so soft.)

The tour bus sways faintly beneath our feet, miles flying by as we drive. This was nothing unfamiliar to us. We'd been doing this for years. We were used to it. We were used to going from city to city, going through ghost towns, running into people who knew everything about us or couldn't give us the time of day. This was routine. What isn't routine is how Patrick bumps into me, like he lost his balance for a moment trying to get past me. We'd all been walking on a moving bus for what feels like forever with no issues. We hadn't hit a bump or suddenly gone any faster or slower. Was that on purpose? I chance a glance up at him, notice a faint rosy flush in his cherubic cheeks, notice how his blue eyes look at anything but me as he flees. I smirk. 

Typical Patrick. Always acting so passive, but being semi-aggressive in his approach. 

I lumber on back to my bunk like nothing even happened, crawl into it, and pull the curtain shut. Laying on my back with my arms folded beneath my head, like an extra support, better than my pillow, I close my eyes and just listen. Someone's drumming against something with the flats of their hands, like they're testing out a new beat for a song. Whatever it is, whoever it is, it sounds good. I want to tell them this, but I also want to stay under the radar for right now. So my words lay unspoken on my tongue, dead before they even arrived at my lips, never having an opportunity to migrate from my vocal cords to someone's ears. Someone else is still dead asleep even though it's mid-afternoon. I can't blame them. Their snores are the sound of someone still long lost to the world, swirling around in the beautiful land of dreams. Or nightmares. My brows knit together at the thought over my closed eyes. Nightmares. They plagued us occasionally, and typically, we couldn't play them off. You could always tell when someone had been plagued by the hidden darkness of their subconscious. Maybe they'd be wearing their sunglasses to hide the bruise-like circles under their eyes. Maybe they'd be a bit numb when they wake up, unapproachable even. 

None of us could hide anything. Not even ourselves. 

Which is why I'm not entirely surprised when my curtain gets pulled open. I think to myself, 'What the fuck? I could've been doing disgusting things to myself.' I open my eyes, and the worried expression that had been plaguing my face dissipates into thin air, melting instead into a somewhat confused, mildly amused one. 

Patrick. He's right there in front of me, wide eyed like a baby deer, blinking slowly. It's like he's not even quite sure what possessed himself to peek in and look at me; he's struggling to speak, his lips twitching, like his words are just on the tip of his tongue but he can't let them out. 

So I break the silence, crossing my left leg over my right one, asking coolly, "What's up, Patrick?" 

He looks relieved that I saved him, something that makes a small smile come to my lips. I bite my lower one to keep from showing it entirely, tugging it between my rows of ivory teeth, not wanting him to think that I was amused entirely by his awkwardness. Which, honestly, I was. But that would be embarrassing for him. As much as I loved how he got all flustered when he was embarrassed, now wasn't the time. "Wanna go get something to eat when we stop?" he asks softly, hesitantly. "Shouldn't be much longer now."

We have food here, I think. "Sure, bud," I say instead, nodding firmly. Lunch date? I can do that. It's our day off. We could find a diner or something to stop in at, right? "Make sure you look snazzy. Can't have my favorite gal out and about with me looking anything but her best." I nudge him with my knee, snickering. 

He manages a weak laugh before hiding his face and scurrying away. Is he blushing again? I lean out of my bunk to try and catch a look at him, but overestimate greatly, and end up tumbling out of my bunk. Landing in a small, disgruntled heap on the floor, I groan. Staring up at the ceiling, I wonder vaguely, 'Why me?' 

The rest of the ride is a blur, trees and building and anything remotely scenic blending together to form one giant, multicolored blur in my mind. Everything's the same. I love cities, I love the people. But the view was distorted after so many times seeing it. Rest stops are all similar, familiar but not, like a long forgotten dream that you're reliving. When we pull up, I'm quick to rise to my feet. I'd stayed down on the floor the rest of the way and just made people step around me. I was too lost in my thoughts. Nobody complains. I grab a sweatshirt that I'd tossed onto my bunk on one forgotten night and pull it on. The day was surprisingly chilly, or so my phone proclaimed. I look for Patrick, see him ready and waiting. Waiting for me. My heart skips a beat. Or two. He's wearing a plain black shirt, a black blazer, dark washed skinny jeans, black fedora. He looks damn good. I swallow hard past the tightness of my throat. Have some composure, Pete. Christ. 

Date night was a go. Date day. Date afternoon. Whatever the hell. I was going on a date with Patrick. Would've asked the other guys to go, but Andy had his headphones in, music blasting, and Joe was still asleep. When I pass by his bunk, he mumbles something in his sleep, sounding like, "Please.. he is so soft." I snort and keep walking past him, snagging my shoes and slipping my feet into them before getting off the bus. 

The air's a lot more brisk than I expect it to be. Maybe I should've brought a scarf. Did I pack one? I'm turning back on my heel, about to go back up the steps, when I see Patrick climbing down them. Small, radiant, beautiful Patrick — with a black scarf in his hands. He approaches me, extends his arms and holds it out to me, much like you'd offer an unfamiliar animal your hands to sniff. "God, bless your fucking soul," I mutter, taking it from him, wrapping it securely around my neck. He seems nervous, digging the toe of his shoe into the dirt beneath his feet, then cursing the red-brown smudge it causes. I laugh and gesture for him to follow me. He does without thinking. 

We should've hailed a cab, had a car waiting for us, something. Because this town is dead. Not just with a few small shops, steady but small throngs of people around. No. The kind of town where you could drop a paper clip across it and someone on the other side could hear. I shove my hands into my pockets as we walk, my hazel eyes scanning for any sign of life, and I see nothing. I make small talk as we walk, joking, asking Patrick, "Where the fuck is everyone? Is this even a town?" He laughs at everything I say. I'm not even funny. 

Eventually, we happen upon a diner. It looks old, a little shabby, a little worn down. I love it. Patrick eyes it at the same time I do, and we go for the door. I reach it first and grab the handle, swing it open, prop it into position with my foot. He eyes me indignantly but still goes in first, ducking into the warmth already radiating from the building. I go in after him, rubbing my palms together in an attempt to warm them with the friction. 

We're sat at a booth by a woman named Gloria, and she throws down menus that seem like they're from the early nineties for both of us. She looks to be in her late thirties, with a mound of messy blonde curls sitting atop her head, chocolate brown eyes that stay fixated on Patrick even when she asks what I'd like to drink. It's like he's the only man in the world that she'd ever seen before. I can't blame her, but seeing her look at him like that makes my blood boil. With a bit of icy venom in my voice, I order a coffee, gritting my teeth. She doesn't let my hostility rebuke her, though; she brushes her hand across Patrick's when he asks for a water, winks and says that she'll be right back. I hate her. I hate her already. 

Jaw clenched, I turn my attention back to the man before me. He's recovered from how he recoiled from the waitress and, honestly, he seems concerned, brows furrowed together over his eyes. "Pete? Are you okay?" 

Me? Fucking peachy. "Yeah, I'm fine. Why?" I try to play it cool. I'm pretty shitty at it though. I've never been one to hide my emotions, especially not when it came to Patrick. Not in the oh-boy-I-wanna-bang-my-bandmate way, but in the fuck-with-my-best-friend-and-I-will-eat-you-alive kind of way. And I didn't know if I actually wanted to bang Patrick as much as I just wanted to hold him to me, wrap him in my arms, and keep him safe. Shelter him from the world. Press my lips to his when he started talking too much and —

"Just wondering. You seem a little.. tense." He's speaking sheepishly, an apologetic grimace on his face. Damn it, Pete. Fix it. I can't speak yet, though, because Gloria's back. She sets a mug of steaming hot black coffee in front of me, along with a shallow bowl full of creamers, and slides Patrick his ice water. She asks if we need a few more minutes with the menu. I realize I hadn't even glanced at it. 

"You ready to order?" I ask Patrick. He nods. So I turn to Gloria and shake my head. "We're ready." Fuck. I gesture for him to go. I don't even hear what he orders. I just say that I'll "have what he's having" and relinquish my menu. She stalks off, and I take my mug between my still cold hands, rolling it between them. Coffee's cheap, but I'll take it. Better than nothing. I grip onto it, raise it to my lips, drink it just as it is. Dark. Bitter. Sophisticated. Words I wish I could use to describe myself, make me seem a lot more complex than I really was. I still feel Patrick's eyes on me, and he looks more confused than anything. I quirk a brow, peering at him from over the rim of the cup, through the billowing trails of steam rising from the brew. Lowering it, I swallow the mouthful of coffee I have, run my tongue over my lips. "What?" 

Patrick chuckles. The sound is small, airy, music to my ears. He doesn't say anything, just shakes his head and stirs his water around in the cup with the red plastic straw haphazardly stuck in there. I'm curious, but I let it go. Verbally, at least. Mentally, I'm breaking everything down. Did I do something stupid? Did I have something on my face? I casually wipe the sleeve of my sweater across my mouth, under my nose. Did I fuck up a word without realizing it? I'm silently fuming, glaring at my coffee. Patrick's still laughing after he sips at his damn water, still not telling me anything. I tap his leg under the table gently with my foot. Not a nudge, not a full-fledged kick. But enough. He settles down and leans against the wall on his side of the booth, grinning widely. I hate that I love that stupid, bright smile so much. I hate that I love him so much. 

I don't really hate that last part, though. 

Gloria brings out our food a few minutes later, interrupting some mindless chatter between Patrick and I, and I realize then why he was laughing at me. "Two garden burgers and fries for you gentlemen." 

Meatless burgers? Serves me right for not paying attention and ordering after the vegetarian. I curl my upper lip up when we're asked if we need anything else and, between wild giggles, Patrick says that we're good. I try so hard to act disgusted. I try, and I try. But Patrick's goddamn giggling throws me off my course of bitterness, and before I know it, I'm laughing too. Is he real? How can one human being be so much like pure sunshine? Pure and bright and happy? 

I snatch the glass bottle of ketchup from the side of the table, twist off the cap, dump a copious amount on my plate for my French fries, and set it back down. I shove it in my best friend's general direction and, Jesus Christ, he's still giggling. He's laughing as he picks his burger up, laughing up until he takes his first bite, and I can't help but stare wondrously at him. He tilts his head to the side, studying me, looking more like a confused puppy hearing an unfamiliar noise for the first time than anything. He chews thoughtfully, swallows, questions, "Why are you looking at me like that?" 

I don't answer. One can't simply explain the amount of love that I feel for him. The kind of love that makes you feel warm and fuzzy inside, like your heart's exploding, like you're complete. I feel like a little kid with the biggest crush on the whole world, and said crush just kissed me for the first time. I feel like my insides are swarming with butterflies trying to escape the confines of my small frame. I grab a fry, dip it in ketchup, and bite off the end of it. Salty fried potato, sweet tomato bliss. At least one thing on my plate was guaranteed quality. With my hand still holding the remainder of the fry between my index finger and thumb, I knock the top bun off of my burger with my pinky and inspect it. This sets Patrick off worse. He laughs. He pulls out his phone and snaps a picture of me with my face inches away from the patty, eyes fixated on the grains and different textures in the burger. He takes another when I turn my gaze back up to him and bare my teeth, crinkle my nose, furrow my brows. I look about as mean as a five foot seven guy with bleached hair can look with his face next to a garden burger. Not really mean at all. 

I replace the top bun and drop my fry, instead occupying my calloused hands with the burger, lifting it from the plate. It's dressed with the typical lettuce, tomato, onion, pickle, a touch of mayonnaise. I take a bite before I can talk myself out of it. Tastes like onions, cheese, and earth. It's good in a weird way. Patrick's looking at me, awaiting my consensus. I shrug, take another bite when I swallow the one in my mouth, mumbling around the mouthful, "S'okay." Maybe it was a little more than okay. He grabs his napkin, reaches across the table. He dabs at a bit of mayo that I'd gotten in my beard, he looks at me like I'm the only star in his night sky. He laughs. I laugh. My heart skips another few beats. Gloria stares from behind the counter, and when I look over, she pretends to busy herself, fiddling with a display case for a cherry pie with a lattice crust. She probably wishes she was me. I'd wish I was me, too. I'm lucky. 

I drain my cup of coffee, get a refill from a wonderfully cold Gloria, drain it once more. I polish off my garden burger with a bit of gusto, and even finish what's left of Patrick's when he offers it to me. I hate eating off of people, but him? I could make an exception. It's getting later, we're the only people in this diner besides a waitress and a cook hidden away in the kitchen, and we're loving it. He's trying to pick apart my brain and learn more about me, and I'm pressing all of his buttons to try and get him worked up. He asks if I'm into anyone. I shrug. I ask him the same question. He avoids it like his life depends on him not saying it. I already know his answer — rather, the answer he's avoiding saying — so I press onwards, asking what they're like, if he's sure he really likes them. Patrick's face is a deep, carnation pink, and I want to cup his soft cheeks between my palms and kiss him, smack dab on the lips. He finally just stops answering, because he knows all he can do is stammer. I smirk victoriously and wave to Gloria for the check. 

She saunters over. God, she was relentless. Hands me the bill, hands a slip of paper to Patrick. I see him act like he tucks it away into his pocket, and he side eyes me, pleading me silently. Hurry up. I pull out my wallet, retract two twenty dollar bills, and hand it back over. "Keep the change. Let's go, babe." I throw in the pet name to piss her off and make Patrick's world explode. 

Both go exactly as I plan. Gloria's spluttering like mad, Patrick's like a puppy nipping at my heels, rushing to stay right behind me as I rise from the booth and swagger towards the door. I push it open and hold it for my boy, who shivers as the cold air hits him. It's only gotten colder since we'd left, with the wind so bitter it's like it had sharp teeth, biting at any exposed skin. I curse, remove my scarf, wrap it around his neck, the fabric bunching up in such a way that it covers his mouth and nose as well. He's like a little kid, bundled up in something too big for him, staring at me with those wide eyes that I get hypnotized by, and I'm pinning him up against the wall of the building next to the diner, having a few inches over him. His body is saying that he's nervous and he can't act, but his eyes are screaming 'Kiss me, emo boy.' 

And I do just that. I pull the scarf down from his face, plant one hand firmly on the wall beside his face. I use my other hand and cup his cheek. The fleshy pad of my thumb caresses his cheekbone before I lean in and kiss him. My hand snakes around to the back of his head, and I tangle my digits in his mousy hair, holding onto every tendril that dared to poke between my fingers. I kiss him like he's air and I'm drowning. At first, he's tense, but he melts beneath the touch of my chapped lips within a second. He's soft. He's velvety under my mouth. He's sweet like honey. He's responding hungrily to my kiss, as needy as me. He grips the front of my sweatshirt in his small hands balled into tight fists. He pulls me in and draws me closer. 

I never want the kiss to end, but I'm fucking freezing, and we needed to get back to the bus soon so we could take back off. It feels like my body's on fire, even though my skin is so positively cold. My core is in flames, lava's flowing through my veins, and my lips burn and taste like Patrick. He's struggling to draw in a proper breath, cheeks flushed from the cold nipping at his pale skin and from what had just gone on. He's trying to say a coherent sentence out loud and he's failing. I take his hand in mine and tug him along. Our fingers fit between each other's perfectly. It's disgustingly cheesy. It's disgustingly clichéd. And I love this, too. I raise his hand to my lips and kiss the back of it, kiss tenderly along every finger, every knuckle. I kiss his inner wrist at his pulse point, and it's like I can feel his heart flutter. 

"I.. You knew this whole time?" Finally, a question. Patrick's flabbergasted. 

"You can't exactly hide things that well, champ." I bump into him with my hip. "Yeah, I knew. I wanted to have some fun. Is that so bad?" 

He doesn't speak again until we're back at the bus. I'm about to board again, my hand feeling empty without his in it, when he grabs my wrist and tugs me back to him. I cock one eyebrow and purse my lips, waiting for him to speak, to do anything. He steals a cheeky kiss from my lips and whispers against them, "I love you." 

"I know." I'm burning to say it back to him, aching. I need to. But I don't. I don't give him that satisfaction. I jog up the steps and go straight for my bunk, diving into it, drawing my curtain shut. I can hear Patrick curse at me before hurrying up to try and catch me. He runs to my bunk. He throws open my curtain. I feign sleep for a second, and then I pull him into my bunk with me. It's crowded. It's warm. His tiny body is pressed right up against mine. I close the curtain again. Someone groans, tells us to get a room. I say something snarky back, about how this was my room, and that they should shut up. 

I spoon Patrick. I bury my face in his silky hair. He smells just as sweet as his mouth tastes. Maybe sweeter. I wonder if I should've showered before cuddling him, then think, fuck it. He's happy. I'm happy. I keep my arms wrapped securely around him, even when I fall asleep to the dulcet sounds of him humming, to the sensation of him running his fingers along the lengths of my tattooed arms, managing to say before drifting off, "I love you too, Patrick." 

Maybe we weren't the most romantic of guys. At least I wasn't. But damn, was I happy.


End file.
